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What with all the recent happenings at Kollektivnye it has been a good while since I left my American tale at the conclusion of my time in Vegas, getting set for the West Coast. I had been told over and over that L.A., much like Dionne Warwick sang all those years ago, was too sprawling a city to be enjoyable to a car-less bum and car-less and bum-like as I was and indeed felt, I had heeded this advice. This meant that I had allowed just three days in the city of angels and as the Greyhound pulled in to the station, working out the bus number required to secure my passage best to the Crenshaw Boulevard commune I was staying in was the main thing on my mind. With the help of a somewhat nefarious chap at the bus stop, the “I’m lost, I’m English, I’ve only got a $20 bill” blag worked a treat and not a moment too soon I found myself at the top of Crenshaw, looking forward to getting my head down and with not much of a plan for the next couple of days.

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The following morning I decided that despite being repeatedly told that Hollywood was ‘shite’, it made little sense to get all the way out here and not at least have a super-touristy photograph of the infamous sign to take home and show my peeps. Then, after my mother had (somewhat alarmingly) been asking me, weeks before in Miami, if I was visiting Muscle Beach, I figured I would then head to Venice Beach. It was a good job I only tasked myself with hitting these two areas as two hour-long bus journeys lay ahead of me in the scorching west coast weather. Upon arriving in Hollywood, I instantly made getting the sign photographed my first task and then pottered back down the walk of fame, finding myself inexplicably amused by the Mark Wahlberg plaque (sorry Mark). The thing that seemed most apparent here was the unashamed tourist traps, you couldn’t go twenty yards without garish signs for ‘studio tours’ and the such-like, with repugnant little fellows constantly trying to sell passers by the hollow product with painfully scant success.  By the time I was making these observations, I had partaken in a ‘slice’ from Greco’s New York Pizzeria which, while filling me had certainly not added to the distinct lack of a L.A. vibe and was now stood outside the Starbucks on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and North McCadden Place thrashing them for their complimentary WIFI.

With my trusty Google Maps (sic) bus timetable loaded (staying true as ever to Kerouac, one of my journey’s inspirations), it was time to grab a slice of L.A. proper and hit Venice. By the time I arrived at the beach I was itching for something obtusely ‘rad’ to be occurring and much to my delight it was….everywhere. Making my way down the fishing pier, the scene I had envisaged on the bus the night before unfurled before my eyes. A vast stretch of beach, the unmistakable huts and lifeguard towers and the boardwalk buzzing with activity. Twenty minutes on the Venice Beach boardwalk afford one more in the way of tantalisingly wacky characters to interact with and photograph than most places would do in a day and so I made my way down past the basketball courts to Muscle Beach. The gym wasn’t exactly brimming but a fine gentleman in tight red speedos and an aging body builder’s frame caught my eye as he tried to make collections just outside (this is merely what he claimed, I hold no responsibility for his integrity as it was questionable at best. Methinks ‘roids were what any dollars he gleaned would be spent on). Out of the corner of my eye I then spotted the skate park, its idyllic setting with the sea a couple of hundred yards away with a sublime bowl set-up as the focal point, its undulations serving as a second home to ‘Tricky Nicky’ and crew as they’re skill which entirely eclipsed those around them saw them wash the bowl effortlessly.

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As I took the skate park in for an hour or so, the sun setting, Stacy Peralta’s 2001 documentary ‘Dogtown and Z-Boys’ struck a real chord as I noticed a separate bowl that may as well have been one of the empty swimming pools that the Zephyr Skate Team (which boasted the likes of Tony Alva) spent their days in during the 1970s as they single-handedly revolutionised skateboarding, setting it on the path to the sport we know today. The skate park still maintains that edge that was epitomised by the Zephyrs, whereby crowd or no crowd, you get your chance to do your thing, if there is someone better you stand back and watch. It is a mentality that is often overlooked by the casual observer who is happy to watch anyone ride so long as they land a few big jumps, but it is the intricacies of this ‘power struggle’ that make you realise how much of a negotiated space this tiny park is. For all the hundreds of casual riders who stop by, undoubtedly politics come into play and those who don’t make the grade or raise the bar are urged to leave, swiftly.

After a delicious and cheap burrito and a couple of ice cold beers, I made my way to the bus stop wishing that I had really practiced on that skateboard we used to have at my Gran’s house as opposed to just sitting on it and riding it down till I hit the gate. As if only to rub salt in my wounds, I watch on as one of the boys from the skate park rolls past on his board, mid phone conversation, safe in the knowledge that he is five minutes (by skateboard) from home.

In the morning, with one more uninterrupted day ahead of me I spend the morning franticly deciding what to prioritize doing and come to the decision that I need to hit the Getty Center and ideally then snake off to the Griffith Observatory which I had remembered from recently re-watching the classic ‘Rebel Without a Cause’. Again, it took a good while and indeed some confusion on my part to orientate myself from Crenshaw to well, anywhere…and it was only through the good will of a lady sat next to me on the bus that I only missed my change of bus by a stop. Nevertheless, I arrived at the Getty having coursed through the picturesque Beverly Hills to find that a cable pulled tram ride awaited in order to elevate myself and fellow revellers to the sublime setting overlooking the valley and indeed the city below. The architecture of the center itself is worth the effort alone, but arriving a few of hours before sunset afforded me time to have a thorough wander of the galleries before taking in the awe inspiring views outside and planning my route to the observatory.

This final task proved more difficult than intended, such was my late arrival and the incredibly remote location of the observatory, I had found myself wandering halfway through the Griffith Park only to be met by complete darkness and no feasible way of continuing on foot. Having retreated to the road and quizzed a few people I attempted to secure a bus but was assured that none of that was going on at this time of night. Reserved to the fact I was going to have to cross some motherfuckers palm with silver (or best part of a $20 note) I reluctantly indicated my desire to a taxi driver and he duly delivered me to the crest of the hill on which the 76 year old observatory lies. Treated to a close-up look of the Moon, a distant look at Saturn and yet more breathtaking views of L.A.’s expansive layout I was content that with the little time I had allowed myself and by the sounds of the scornful accounts of the city that I had experienced, a job had been well done. Calling time on my star and city gazing, I put my finest ‘confused Englishman’ act on for a park ranger in the hope that she would give me a lift back to civilisation yet it failed and the twenty minute walk I was quoted was somewhat inaccurate as no-one was to be seen for a good while, except a deer, with whom I had a lengthy stare off.

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